Here I Dreamt I Was
by lovelornis
Summary: A series of shorts chronicling the journeys of Jon, Sansa, Arya & Gendry in the Free Cities and beyond. Set a few years after ADWD.
1. A Wolf In Sheep's Clothing

**A Wolf In Sheep's Clothing**

And I am nothing of a builder

But here I dreamt I was an architect

And I built this balustrade

To keep you home, to keep you safe

From the outside world

But the angles and the corners

Even though my work is unparalleled

They never seemed to meet

This structure fell about our feet

And we were free to go [...]

And we are vagabonds

We travel without seatbelts on

We live this close to death...

-Here I Dreamt I Was An Architect, The Decemberists

"You are a very beautiful woman," the sailor said. And so she was. With long, slender limbs that moved with a regal grace, warm rose pink lips on winter pale skin, eyes blue is the light which shone through the bright floating ice of far northern waters and hair which the flickering lantern light of the inn transformed into the dancing orange-gold-crimson of the red priests' nightfires, she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever laid eyes upon.

The women speared him with an ice-blue glance that betrayed nothing of her thoughts. "Do you say that to all the women?" she asked almost innocently. "Or only the ones you would purchase?"

The air in the tavern was heated and close with a humidity that was drenching the sailor's tunic under his brown leather jerkin. He shifted in his seat, tugging at the collar of his shirt. Before he could manage to stutter out a proper response, the woman breathed a low, sweet laugh. "Follow me in a moment," she murmured before raising and disappearing up the old, wooden stairs behind their table.

The sailor loosened his collar again and choked down the last of his sour ale, glancing once and then a second time around the half-lit tavern at the drunken, merry, oblivious revelers. He got to his feet with a nonchalance he did not feel, and made his way up the tavern stairs to the rooms above.

The hallway was draped in thick, dark shadows broken only by the faint, blue moonlight spilling in from the small window at the far end. The sailor crept forward bit by bit, calling out for the woman in a hushed tone that was swallowed by the dull clamor booming up from the tavern below. Near the third door down he heard a whispered answer to his left. There she was, his brilliant red seductress swathed in the darkness of an alcove with her hand about to open the door hidden there. He did not hold back any longer. He _could_ not.

In a matter of seconds, he had her back pressed against the door; his hands in that fiery hair, his mouth diving in for a taste of her lean, pale throat, his hands groping at the soft fabric of her dress to feel the shapely form beneath. She let out a tiny gasp of surprise, the first ungraceful sound to fall from her lips since he had encountered her. Yet, she quickly composed herself, wrapping her arms around him and settling her slender hands upon his waist. He was just on point of capturing those rosy lips with his own when the door behind them suddenly lurched open and the woman was drawn back swiftly, causing him to fall forward into the room.

The sailor caught a fleeting glimpse of his dagger in her delicate hand and heard a wild snarl like that of a bear -or perhaps a wolf- before a blunt object struck his head from behind, and darkness fell upon him.

:::::::::::::::

"Jon!" Sansa exclaimed, gripping the hair at the base of Ghost's neck to prevent the direwolf from launching himself at the man on the floor. She found herself waving the gleaming dagger in her hand with more exasperation than authority despite her best efforts. "I had everything under control. I could have handled him myself."

Jon dragged the limb body of the sailor fully into the room, dropped the man like a sack of potatoes, and then shut and latched the door. "Would that have been before or after he had 'handled' _you_?"

Sansa flushed brightly, but she did not back down. "Regardless, you should have let me take care of it. You said yourself you can't always be there to protect me every second. How am I to learn self-defense if you insist on treating me like a porcelain doll?"

Jon's dark eyes were troubled and stormy, and when he finally relented he let out a ragged sigh which sounded more like a growl than anything else. "You're right. It's just that... When I heard you gasp..." He came closer and ran a scarred knuckle gently down her cheek. "Are you all right?" he questioned softly.

Sansa's eyes fluttered closed against her will. She could not speak. She could not even breathe for a startling moment. In the end, she merely nodded. Then, Jon's large, warm hands were at her wrist, gently pulling the dagger from her grasp. She opened her eyes again, feeling her cheeks burn even hotter than before as though Jon had left a bit of his Targaryen fire behind in her flesh. Luckily, he had turned to the hearth, examining the sailor's curved weapon in the crackling firelight, and he did not see her face nor hear the shakiness of the slow breath she exhaled.

It had been two years since a great, white direwolf had come to her in the Vale of Arryn with a silver wolf amulet around his neck that hid a note written to her in her half-brother's hand. Two years since Jon had come for her at the Gates of the Moon under cover of darkness on a snowy winter's night and laid his sword and his life at her feet. Two years since she and Jon had sought shelter at Greywater Watch, learned a few hard truths from a man named Howland Reed and, just like that, became cousins. Two years since the pair of them had set sail for the Free Cities with the relative safety of exile their only aim...

Yet, Sansa could not say when it was that the very sight of Jon had begun to cause a bright flame to burst alive inside of her; when his merest touches had begun to weaken her limbs; when his solemn, grey eyes had become the closest thing to home that she knew...

"This is Braavosi craftsmanship," Jon said, pulling her from her reverie. She paced over to stand beside him. Ghost trailed along behind her and silently bared his teeth at the still prone sailor as they passed him. Jon was turning the small, curved blade over and over in his hands as he spoke. "Expensive. I doubt a man like him came to have a weapon like this by lucky happenstance."

"A pirate?" Sansa said the word that Jon would not. She sometimes suspected that he kept from her some of the more frightening truths about their situation out of some misguided sense of chivalry, but she had had her rose-colored vision of the world torn away from her years ago; brutally chopped away along with her father's head. She did not need Jon nor anyone else to candy-coat things for her.

Jon gave her a quick, weary glance. "Most likely," he confirmed. He handed the dagger back to her. The engraved leather hilt still held some of his warmth. Sansa clutched it tightly as she watched Jon pick up one of the rickety wooden chairs which sat beside the small table near the hearth. He placed it in the center of the room, and heaved the pirate up from the floor and on to it. "Ghost, to me," he commanded. After the direwolf had padded silently over to stand near his master, Jon slapped the pirate soundly across the face.

The man shortly sputtered his way back into consciousness. Sansa imagined that a scowling, dark-garbed Jon Snow and a snarling, red-eyed, snow-white wolf that was half as tall as a horse must be the most fearsome sight the pirate had ever woken to in his life. His eyes instantly went wide, and his hand shot to his waist only to find an empty scabbard where his dagger should have been. "Please," the man pleaded, his eyes anxiously darting from the direwolf to Jon every few seconds. "I am just a poor sailor with no more to my name than the clothes on my back, the weapon which you have already taken, and a meager bit of coin in my purse. You may have whatever you wish of these things. Please."

"I don't wish for any of those things," Jon said, staring the man down with a quiet loathing that seemed out of place on his normally calm, neutral face.

The pirate became even more frightened than before; a reaction which Sansa could understand easily. A foe without a clear motive was the most dangerous adversary there was. It was the most important lesson she had learned from Petyr Baelish, and one she was not likely to forget. "Please," the man said again, glancing over at Sansa with mute appeal as if his salvation lie in her hands. "What do you want from me?"

"Information," Jon answered, bringing the pirate's attention back to him. "Nothing more."

The man seemed to relax a bit. He reached up to loosen the collar of his tunic and cleared his throat. "What kind of information do you wish?"

"News," said Jon. "Of the Dragon Queen."

The pirate's reply was quick and full of disgust. "The Butcher of Slavery's Bay and her accursed beasts sail westward with a full host of Dothraki, her army of Unsullied, three companies of sellswords, and even some Westerosi pirates at her back. Good riddance, I say."

Jon's mouth tightened the smallest bit, but he made no comment on the pirate's words. "What of Westeros?"

"What do you wish to know of that place?"

"How goes the War of Five Kings?"

"Kings?" The pirate gave a nervous little chuckle. "Winter is the only king who reigns in the west now."

Jon frowned. "The fighting has ceased?"

"The fighting has only just begun," the pirate answered. "It is said that only death greets the man foolish enough to put down anchor there. It is said that, in Westeros, dead men rise up to slay the living. That they do not even spare their own kin. It is said that Death himself roams the land in the guise of a white shadow with blue fire in his eyes. That he wields a sword made of ice and kills every man, woman and child in his path, leaving a trail of the living dead in his wake."

Sansa's skin crawled at the man's words. "We asked for news," she found herself blurting out. "Not the fancies of drunken sailors." She looked to Jon, thinking that he would share in her indignation. An iron fist clenched around her heart when she saw the resigned and knowing look in his dark eyes. _Tell him, Jon_, she wanted to plead. _Tell him he's wrong. That he's wasting our time with ludicrous falsehoods. Tell him..._

But, Jon gave her a slight negative shake of his head, and turned back to the pirate. "Have you come across any Westerosi in your recent travels?"

"Not in _recent_ days, no." The man glanced again at Ghost, and did not elaborate. The direwolf bared his teeth again, red eyes glinting with a sinister light that made the pirate tug at his collar again, a nervous sweat breaking out upon his brow.

"You're lying," Jon posited.

The pirate shook his head vigorously. "No, I speak only the truth, but..."

Jon quirked a brow, a hand falling to the scruff of Ghost's neck, poised to urge the direwolf forward. "But?"

"But..." The man quivered. "That is not the first such beast I have seen."

Sansa stepped forward, breathless. "You've see another direwolf? When? What did it look like?"

"It was many, many months ago, perhaps even a year, but I will never forget it. A wolf almost as large as this one here." He indicated Ghost with a finger. "Large and grey and wild."

"And its eyes?" Jon asked. "What color were its eyes?"

"Its eyes were golden and more feral than any I have ever seen."

Sansa and Jon shared a look. She could tell that he was thinking the same thing she was: _Nymeria_. Then, just as quickly:_ Arya_. Before they left Westeros, Jon had confirmed what Sansa had suspected all along. The girl who had been passed off as Arya -the girl who had been wed to the Bastard of Bolton before Jon had killed the man- had really been her friend Jeyne Poole. The real Arya had yet to be found, dead or alive.

"Who was with the direwolf?" Sansa pressed. "A young girl...or perhaps boy? With dark hair and grey eyes?"

"It was a boy with the wolf," the pirate told them. "He did have dark hair, yes. But his eyes were blue as the sky. That is all that I know of him."

"Where did you see the wolf and the boy?"

"Braavos," said the pirate. "I saw them in Braavos."

:::::::::::::::

When Jon returned to the inn, Myr's royal blue dusk had already turned a velvety black. He had led the pirate down to the edge of the docks, and let the man go with both his life and his belongings. The pirate had scurried away as if the Stranger was biting at his heels. Now, standing outside the door of the small room he and Sansa had procured three nights ago, Jon had the urge to run as well. He sighed and pushed open the door. Ghost rose his large head to watch as Jon strode in and latched the door behind him. Just as Jon had suspected, Sansa was still awake. She had changed into her cotton night shift over which she wore a long pale blue silken robe that had once belonged to her aunt, Lysa Arryn. She was sitting in a chair by the hearth, idly mending a tear in one of his tunics.

"You should have latched the door," Jon chided softly, sinking wearily into the chair across from her. "Anyone could have walked in here."

"Yes," agreed Sansa. "But they would have had a hard time walking back out again if me and Ghost had anything to say about it." She tapped the pearl pommel of the small, silver-handled anlace resting snugly inside its ornate silver scabbard on the small wooden table beside her chair. Unlike the pirate's curved Braavosi dagger, it had a straight, razor-sharp, double-sided blade of exquisite Valyrian steel, and Sansa habitually steeped it in a paralyzing poison both potent and quick.

Jon only smiled ruefully in reply, remembering the day many months ago when he had reluctantly gifted his gentle lady of a cousin with the deadly weapon. _Gentle she may be_, he thought, chest warming with a feeling akin to pride, _but the poison was her idea._

A comfortable silence fell over them for quite a while after that; the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the soft noises of fabric against fabric as Sansa went about her task. She only broke the silence when Jon rose to go through his nightly routine of readying his pallet on the floor. "I wish you'd take the bed sometimes, Jon," she fretted like always. "We could take turns."

"No," he said, unyielding steel behind his voice.

"Then why not get one of the rooms with two beds? Like we did in the beginning."

"We can't afford the rooms with two beds anymore," admitted Jon, quietly.

Sansa sat her work aside. "How much do we have left?"

Jon was stubbornly silent.

"How much, Jon?"

He studied Sansa for a time, feeling shamed by her open, trusting expression. She had not once complained about trading her glided cage for the baser shackles of poverty which had been the cost of her freedom, but Jon knew that his inability to provide her with the comforts she had once been accustomed to had to be quietly wearing on her whether she wanted to admit it or not. Jon shifted under the weight of her quietly insistent gaze, and finally forced words from his mouth. "Enough for food and shelter for the next three weeks, or..."

"One boat ride," Sansa finished for him. Her face fell into that maddening neutral expression she had learned to use in the Vale when she wanted to kept her feelings on a subject secret. "So, which way are we going? North? South?" She hesitated, voice trembling slightly when she finally continued. "West?"

Though her feelings might be hidden from Jon, her meaning was not. _North to chase the scant possibility of Arya? South to find Daenaerys? Or west to go home and face whatever horrors that might find them there?_

Jon searched her eyes for some indication of what she might be thinking, for some crack in the mask, but his search was futile. "It is your decision as much as it is mine," he muttered finally.

Sansa went back to her mending, just as stubborn as he. "I trust your judgement, Jon. I will do whatever you think is best."

"Don't do that," Jon sighed and shook his head. "Don't tell me what you think I want to hear. I want to know your opinion. I want to know how you feel!"

Sansa's eyes slid shut and her lips began to quiver, yet her voice was sure when she replied. "If there is even the smallest chance that she's alive..."

"Braavos it is, then," Jon said decisively.

Sansa looked at him with surprise and not a little sympathy in her eyes. "Jon, are you sure? Trading the certainty of finding your aunt for the rumor of a possibility of finding Arya's _direwolf_? It sounds mad."

"When you put it that way, yes it does," Jon admitted, letting his mouth work its way into the semblance of a smile. "But, if anyone knows where to find Arya, it would be Nymeria and _she_was last spotted in Braavos. You're right. If there's any chance of finding her... Any chance at all... We have to go. She's part of our pack," he added.

A small smile warmed Sansa's features for just a moment, but it was buried beneath the icy mask again almost as quickly. "Jon?" whispered Sansa. "What the pirate said about Westeros... Is it true?"

Jon averted his eyes from hers; preferring to stare into the fire instead. "I fear it is," he murmured, voice just loud enough to be heard over the crackle of burning wood. "There are things I have not had the heart to tell you. Things I learned before the fall of the Wall..."

When Jon cast his gaze at Sansa once more, her hands were clutching the shirt she had been mending so tightly that he feared it might tear open again. She drew a breath that seemed to fortify her, and looked at him with all the strength of her Stark heritage shining out of her Tully-blue eyes. "Will you tell me now, please?"

Jon had never felt more proud of her than in that moment. He could do nothing but draw his own fortifying breath and acquiesce.


	2. A Nameless Titan of Braavos

**A Nameless Titan of Braavos**

My past is perilous

But each scar I bear sings

Monuments to where I have been

And melodies to where I am going...

-Monuments And Melodies, Incubus

"It is unusually busy tonight, do you not think?" the thief said to the trader. The former was a lean, grinning man with a sinister light in his eyes. The latter was an enormously rotund man with a pointy green beard who gleamed all over with gems and chains and shiny fabrics. "I have never been made to wait this long for a drink. I have half a mind to take my business elsewhere." He said the last part in a loud voice intended to carry across the room where the proprietress was busy serving a boisterous company of sellswords. The woman merely sniffed in the thief's general direction by way of response.

"Might we do some business of our own while we wait?" The trader said, pressing the pudgy fingers of both hands together to make a steeple. His greedy, beady eyes fastened upon the dagger at the thief's belt. "I am interested to know how you came by such a remarkable weapon."

"What, this old thing?" The thief's mouth formed a slimy, smug smirk as he pulled the curved Braavosi dagger from its small, ornate scabbard at his hip. Bringing the blade closer to the light of the lamp which sat on the table between he and the trader, the thief tilted it this way and that so that not even the smallest hand-engraved detail in its brown leather hilt could escape the other man. "I lifted it off a mad man in Myr," he shrugged.

"How did you know the man was mad?" The trader asked listlessly, his eyes still inspecting the well-made weapon with interest.

"He was convinced that giant wolves were haunting his steps wherever he went."

The trader raised an eyebrow. "Giant wolves?"

"Just so," the thief nodded. "He even claimed that one of the beasts was here, in Braavos!"

"And the others?" the trader asked, ostensibly more interested in the dagger than the thief's tall tale.

"He spoke of only one other... A great, savage wolf with fur as white as snow and eyes as red as blood. He claimed it assailed him there in Myr. He was sure they would find him again no matter where he fled. He couldn't be talked out of his madness. I had no choice but to put the poor soul out of his misery. It was an act of mercy."

"Very magnanimous of you," the trader remarked with a tinge of dry humor that the thief failed to note.

The thief shrugged again. "All men must serve."

The trader held out a hand. "May I?"

The thief eyed the trader a moment before placing the dagger in the large man's hand. The trader wasted no time examining the weapon with the shrewd intensity indicative of his trade. When his inspection came to its end his gaze met that of the thief again. "Five gold dragons."

"Fifteen," the thief countered.

"Ten."

"I am suddenly feeling quite sentimental about the blade," the thief sighed sorrowfully. "I simply could not part with it for any less than twenty dragons."

The trader bristled. "That's ludicrous! The blade isn't even dragonsteel!"

The thief snatched the dagger back with the _swiftness_ indicative of _his_ trade. "That is my price."

The trader leveled the thief with a cold hard stare before pulling a small, leather purse from a hidden pocket within his shimmering robes and counting out twenty golden coins. The thief and the trader made their exchange without further delay, and each went their separate ways. The trader struggled to his feet and lumbered over to badger the harried proprietress. The thief slinked off through a side door that let out on a short alleyway which led to the nearest canal.

Arya slipped out of her crouching position poised as gracefully as a cat upon one of the heavy wooden rafters which criss-crossed one another, forming a grid that covered the tavern from one end to the other. Even at five-and-ten, she was still small enough that she did not have to worry much about grazing her head on the stony ceiling above as she quietly navigated her way across the rafters on all fours. Her destination was the high opening near the side exit -more a narrow smoke vent than a true window- which she was still slim enough to shimmy through.

Outside, the night air was crisp. Her breaths went in feeling as cleansing and cold as fresh-fallen snow, and came out as humid and cloying as the steam from a hot spring. Arya had no trouble scaling the side of the building. Its mortar was in a state of disrepair, making it easy to find footfalls all the way down. In no time at all, she was dropping silently down to the packed earth and crumbling brick of the alley floor.

Arya spotted the thief immediately; a slinking shadow amid shadows halfway up the alley. _He was right about one thing,_ she mused as she eased one of her throwing knives from the holster at her waist. _All men must serve._

_Just as all men must die..._

:::::::::::::::

The sky outside his window was black and moonless when she finally returned to him. _The hour of the wolf_, Gendry thought without humor. Nymeria did not even stir, just lay in her corner, contently knawing on the large bone she had returned with after her latest hunting excursion. He had carefully chosen two small rooms in a narrow, crumbling edifice at the very edge of Silty Town where Nymeria had easy access to the woods east of Braavos. Still, he did not wish to speculate where she had come across a creature with bones that big. He slid out of his bed and crept out of the open doorway. Three strides into the semi-darkness of his small smithy, he found himself driven up against a wall with a sharp blade at his throat.

"Too slow," her annoyed voice said. "You're dead."

Gendry swatted the knife aside and easily swung her small frame around so that she was now the one trapped against the wall. "Too small. _You're _dead," he countered, feeling smug.

"Are you certain of that?" Arya asked, grazing his belly with just the tip of the knife he had not remembered to wrest from her grasp. The graze was not enough to draw blood but it _was_ enough to make her point. Arya sighed and returned the knife to its hidden holster at her waist. "You weren't even trying," she complained.

"I knew it was you," he shrugged. "Besides, my mind was on other things."

"Oh, yeah?" Arya arched an unimpressed brow. "Like what?"

"Like this." He leaned down and covered her mouth with his own, molding one hand to the perfect curve of her hip and the other to her neck where her thick, wild mop of soft, brown hair brushed against his knuckles and her heartbeat pulsed steady and vibrant underneath his palm. She let him lead the kiss for once, tension melting from her body as he pressed her more firmly against the wall and slipped his tongue between her parted lips. Gendry had been imagining this for three straight days; dreaming of the scant few moments in time when the world fell away and nothing mattered but the pair of them. They were both short of breath when they broke apart. Gendry rested his forehead against hers and nudged her nose with his own. "Stay here with me," he whispered; pleaded. "Don't go back to that place anymore."

Arya placed her hands on his chest and shoved him away from her, annoyed once more. "Gendry..."

"Arya," he retorted, childishly mimicking her exasperated tone. He still hated the way she always flinched at the sound of her own name. "You're not like those people! You're not some callous murderer!"

Arya crossed her arms and glared at him. "How can you know better than me what I am?"

"Because you seem to have forgotten," he snapped. "You're Arya of House Stark. The daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully. The sister of King Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. You're the last remaining Stark of Winterfell!"

She reacted to his words as if they were accusations, her stance becoming more and more defensive with each syllable. When he was finished, she looking angry enough to strangle him. "All of those people are dead," she growled. "Including Arya Stark!"

Gendry clenched his eyes shut for three beats. When he opened them again, she was gone. Nymeria had come to poke her head out of the doorway of his tiny room, staring at him with her wise and sorrowful golden eyes. He was suddenly awash in the memory of the clear winter's day in the Neck when the direwolf had come to him in the woods as he gathered kindling for his failing fire. He had gotten it into his head that he could somehow rescue the girl he had _thought_ was Arya from her forced marriage to the Bastard of Bolton, but he had not been prepared for the coming of the North's fierce and merciless winter. He remembered being frightened out of his wits at first sight of Nymeria, dropping the firewood in his arms and running as fast as his legs could carry him. It was not fast enough, of course. Nymeria had easily outran him and tackled him to the ground, knocking him face first into the snow. He recalled with perfect clarity the moment that he realized she had no intention of ripping him limb from limb; that she, for reasons he still did not know, had chosen to attach herself to his side and was merely waiting for his comprehension of the fact to catch up with her own.

She had followed him after that (on his foolhardy march North). She had protected him from danger, brought him part of her kills whenever she when hunting, and kept him warm when the biting winds of winter threatened to claim his life. One day, she had become restless, constantly indicating her desire to go east and tearing at his clothing when he paid her no heed. Finally, out of sheer exasperation, he had given in and followed her lead. It was days before he realized she was leading him to White Harbor. And it was there that he had learned about the counterfeit Arya, the fall of the Wall, and the rumored whereabouts of the real Arya. When he took work on a ship bound for the Free Cities, Nymeria had not protested and that is how he knew it was the right decision.

The journey across the sea had been tough on the both of them, but worth it in the end. They had been in Braavos only five days when Arya found them holed up in a crumbling little inn near Ragman's Harbor. Gendry would never forget his first glimpse of the confident and commanding young woman that had replaced the fierce little wolf girl he had known back in Westeros. He would never forget the way it had taken Ayra weeks to stop staring at him and Nymeria as though utterly certain that they were figments of her imagination she had cooked up during a bout of fever. He would never forget the way she had clung to him and cried when he confessed to her the fate of her lady mother. He would never forget the moment he realized he would rather die than leave her again. He would never forget their first kiss; the way Arya had given him absolutely no warning before launching herself at him and knocking him to the ground. He would never forget the deadness in her eyes when she had first told him about the House of Black and White...

Now his hands clenched into fists at the thought of that particular memory. He had spent over a year in Braavos, even build a simple life for himself making the thin, light swords the young bravos seemed to love. But not once in all that time had he ever been able to talk Arya out of returning to that place of death. Not once had he been able to stop her from prowling about the city day and night, doing the bidding of that Many-Faced god of hers.

Knowing he would not find sleep again that night, Gendry put on his heavy, leather apron, and set about starting a fire beneath his forge.

:::::::::::::::

Despite the late hour, the kindly old man was still sitting at the kitchen table sipping at a cup of pale tea which had long gone cold when Arya at last returned to the House of Black and White. She took the seat across from him without comment, knowing without his saying so that he had been awaiting her arrival for some time.

"Is it done?" he asked without preamble.

"Yes."

"Good. And what three new things do you know now that you did not know when last you left us?"

_He was convinced that giant wolves were haunting his steps wherever he went_, the thief's words came to Arya unbidden, just as they had been doing since she first heard them.

She focused her attention on a tiny groove in the otherwise smooth wooden surface of the table. She absently picked at it with the edge of a fingernail as she replied. "There is a large khalasar pillaging the small, out-lying villages east of Norvos."

"That is a long way from the Dothraki Sea," the kindly man mused with quiet interest. "What else do you know?"

_He even claimed that one of the beasts was here, in Braavos!_

The groove became deeper, her fingernail pushing tiny fragments of wood out of it. "There have been reports of uncontrollable brush fires breaking out in the Flatlands."

"It is good to know this," the kindly man approved. "What is the third thing?"

_He spoke of only one other... A great, savage wolf with fur as white as snow and eyes as red as blood. He claimed it assailed him there in Myr..._

Arya stilled her hands, having made a sizeable gash in the table where once there had been a barely noticable scratch. "Aegon the Pretender, the one they call the Mummer's Dragon... He is dead. His fleet was domolished in a storm when he attempted to retake Dragonstone. There were no survivors."

The kindly man sipped at his cold tea again. "Where did you learn this?"

"From the pirates that looted the wreckage weeks later. They arrived at Ragman's Harbor three days past, heavy with sellsword gold."

"These three things will suffice," the kindly man nodded. "Who are you?"

_Arya of House Stark. The daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully. The sister of King Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. The last remaining Stark of Winterfell._

"No one," Arya replied automatically.

"A lie," the kindly man sighed, disappointment -and even something which might have been resignation- in his dark eyes. He studied her in that way that made her feel as though he knew something she did not. He seemed disinclined to share his knowledge, however, for when he spoke again all he said was: "Tonight you must rest. On the morrow you will serve."

"Who will be receiving the gift?"

"Someone many leagues from here. You must prepare for a long journey."

Arya listened carefully as the kindly man gave her the details of her assignment. It would be the most difficult task she had ever been given. She was forming a plan even as she rose and bid farewell to the kindly man. However, once she stepped out into the hallway, her feet did not take her to the small chamber she had been making use of since her very first night spent in the House of Black and White. Instead, they led her outside once more. As she went along, she counted the steps she took down to the side of the canal. There was a long-hidden treasure she meant to retrieve before she left the Titan's lagoon.

:::::::::::::::

Gendry drove his mallet down upon his chisel again and again, etching grove after grove into the warmed steel of the breastplate he had spend the better part of two weeks forging. The design was more intricate than any he had attempted before. It was an ornate profile of a wolf baring its teeth to unseen enemies. Gendry had been laboring night after night to make sure that every small detail from the tiniest hair to the wolf's fierce snarl were perfectly rendered. It was one of the finest pieces he had ever made. Not that it would ever get worn.

_All of those people are dead! Including Arya Stark!_

Gendry put his tools aside. Whatever force had driven him to seek the solace of his forge had fled. Weary now, he went to the large basin of water near the center of the room and plunged his filthy hands into the tepid water there, scrubbing them clean with the much used brush he kept on the small hook driven into the side of the stone basin. Gendry was just pulling his cleaned hands from the water when a gust of cool night air washed over him. He spun around on instinct alone, brush in hand, ready to fend off an attack, but no attack came this time.

Arya stood in his doorway, illuminated only by the weak pulsing glow from the lantern at the door and the occasional flare up of the fire that was slowly dying in his forge. In her hand was the thin little sword she had wielded in what seemed like another lifetime. _Needle_, he recalled its name. _Arya Stark's weapon._

Gendry let the wet brush drop out of his hand. Water droplets splashed his legs, but he paid them no mind. "You kept that all this time?"

Arya did not answer. Belatedly, Gendry realized that her gaze was fixed on the breastplate he had been working on.

"You're not meant to see that," he said. "It's not finished yet and anyway me making this... I just needed to remember you. Like you were before. I probably wouldn't have even shown it to you, so you can save your anger for another time." He went to grab the armor and put it out of sight, but the moment his fingers touched the rapidly cooling metal Arya stayed his hand. Gendry eyed her, confused by her actions and more than a little concerned that she had not removed her gaze from the breastplate. Her smaller hand let go of his own and went to trace the fine lines etched into the armor.

"I think it's time that I return home," she said at last, surprising him more than he thought was possible.

"Home." He repeated the word dumbly as if unsure of its meaning.

"Yes, home," Arya confirmed, finally meeting his eyes. She put a hand at the base of his neck and pulled herself up to press her lips to his briefly. "Will you come with me?"

"Anywhere."

That brought a tiny wolfish grin to her face. "Good, because we have to make a stop first."

"Where?"

"Myr."


	3. The White Demon of Pentos

**The White Demon of Pentos**

I dreamt you were a monster

with fiery, fiery eyes...

-Faithful Guide, Wintersleep

"There is no room here," the innkeeper said. She would not open the gate to her small courtyard. She would not even come out from behind its metal bars. The fear reflected in her eyes mirrored that of every innkeep with which they had spoken. They had been at it for hours and the daylight was waning. Like many of the other Free Cities in which they had sought refuge, the evening hours in Pentos were almost as hot as its afternoon ones except that the heat in Pentos seemed to radiate out from its baked stone walls and pavements, permeating humid air that was already choked with dust and soot. The result was uncomfortably clinging garments and an unavoidable sensation of being constantly unclean. Now with the imminent approach of night, Sansa had begun to doubt if they would ever find respite in this awful city.

"We have the coin," Jon pressed. "Any small room will suffice."

The woman made a gesture which Sansa had seen many times over the course of the day. One did not have to reside in the Free Cities long to know its meaning very well. It was a gesture meant to ward off evil spirits or bad omens. Sansa was not sure which of those they qualified as, but she suspected it was a bit of both.

They had been nearly a week into their voyage to Braavos when the first sailor fell ill. Sansa had seen the man before they carried him below deck. His skin had gone as white and clammy as curdled milk and his forehead had gleamed with a cold sweat so profuse that his hair was drenched with it. Jon had ushered Sansa back to their cramped quarters, aspect grim with foreboding.

For days afterward, he had insisted that Sansa and Ghost keep as much out of sight as possible, going himself to fetch them food and fresh water when the need arose. Sansa had not fully understood the precaution until three more voyagers had been stricken by the strange affliction that was slowly claiming the life of its first victim. It was then that the crew had begun to mutter long-held superstitions about bad fortunes brought on by bringing women aboard ships and old wives' tales about ominous white beasts who were the minions of Death.

Five more men fell ill and the mutters had turned to boldly spoken appeals to the captain. The captain had been sensible enough not to allow his crew to toss their new passengers overboard, but even he had insisted they find themselves a new ship the moment they made their scheduled stop at Pentos. Of course, once word had spread about them, not a single captain would even _entertain_ the notion of giving them passage. That was how they had come to be stranded in this great sprawling city of stone with no lodging and no transport out.

Sansa placed a gentling hand on Jon's arm. "We'll find no refuge here," she told him softly. "We'd best move on. The sun is beginning to set."

Jon nodded reluctantly, and the woman behind the gate walked away at a quick pace. Silent as ever, Ghost slunk out of the shadows to their right and joined them once more.

The lane they were on was more of a dusty, twisting alleyway between two rows of tall stone buildings. It led to one of Pentos' many broad plazas where Jon and Sansa were likely to find still more unwelcoming and superstitious innkeepers. As they traversed the narrow causeway, Sansa watched a group of small children scamper up the walls like giant grubby spiders. They climbed and leaped and ran over terraces and balconies and rooftops. She was so caught up in the strange spectacle that she almost did not hear Jon when he broke his brooding silence with a gruff murmur.

"They've been following us."

"Who?" Sansa cast her gaze around as discreetly as she knew how. She did not see any suspicious characters at present, but she knew enough to trust Jon's intuition.

"The children," he answered.

His reply surprised Sansa into glancing upward sharply. One of the smaller children was having trouble keeping up with his companions. They were running the length of the stone wall to Sansa's right, and he was struggling with his balance in last place. Just like the others, he was covered in dirt and filth from head to toe and his clothing was ragged and worn. When he finally caught up with the others, they were all perched on one of the rooftops which bordered the plaza, ostensibly waiting for the little one to catch up. However, when he joined them, they remained stationary; waiting. Sansa looked away, her gaze now fixed upon her path. "How long?" she asked softly.

"Since our arrival," he replied, keeping his voice low and calm. "They were waiting for us at the docks."

"How could they possibly know who we are?"

"I fear we might be about to find out," Jon said. He tilted his head in the direction of the nearing plaza. There, blocking their way, was an immense carriage of ornate design which was clearly not planning to move along. The hair on Ghost's neck bristled and he bared his teeth silently. Jon stopped Sansa with a hand on her arm. "You and Ghost should remain here."

Sansa shrugged his hand off and shifted her outer skirts back so that he might note the gleaming silver handle of the sheathed anlace she kept hidden at her hip. "I go where you go," she said with Stark steel in her voice.

Jon huffed a wry chuckle. "I am beginning to regret arming you with that blade."

Sansa let her mouth twist into her own pale rendition of Arya's infamous smirk as she primly replied. "If you like, you can try to disarm me now, but you may mislike the outcome."

Jon's quiet laugh at that was more genuine than the last. "That I do not doubt." He reached over and rearranged her skirts so that her weapon was hidden once more. "Don't let anyone see your claws until it is too late, my lady wolf," he advised softly, dark eyes glowing with warmth.

An electric shiver coursed down the length of Sansa's spine and two bright bursts of heat bloomed in her cheeks. She forced her features to settle into the safe neutral serenity of her mask before the conscious intent to do so could even form in her mind. Immediately, she noted an answering shift in Jon's countenance. The warmth in his eyes cooled and was replaced by a subtle wariness that made her feel as though she should apologize to him. For what, she did not know. "Shall we?"

Jon turned toward the carriage and started forward again, reaching out to pull Sansa in by her elbow until they were shoulder to shoulder as they walked. "Stay near," he cautioned.

Up close, the carriage was even more ornate than it had appeared from afar. Composed of rich amber wood carved with intricate flourishes and led by an imposing pair of destriers, the carriage was one of the finest Sansa had seen since the one which had borne Cersei Lannister the day the queen had rolled into Winterfell with King Robert and irreversibly devastated the lives of Sansa and everyone she held dear. Sansa steeled herself for whatever they might find, and whatever might find _**them**_. She had learned to be wary of fine trappings. Before they came within three feet of the massive carriage, its door flipped open, and out stepped the most enormous man Sansa had ever landed eyes on. He was covered from head to toe in a garish display of wealth; all jewels and fine fabrics and decadently oiled hair.

Jon, Sansa and Ghost came to a collective stop.

"Oh, I won't bite," the large man called out, amusement lacing his words. "A little dagger told me that I might find you Myr. I traveled night and day, at great cost to myself, thinking to approach you there, but imagine my surprise to come upon you, weeks earlier than anticipated, here in my own beautiful city."

"Who are you?" Jon demanded.

"Someone who has served the true sovereigns of Westeros all the days of my life." The man came closer. "Magister Illyrio Mopatis, at your service. You are a very hard man to find, Lord Snow."

"I'm no lord," Jon said. "Not anymore."

"Some say you are a king."

Jon bristled. "Then they have misled you, magister."

"Somehow I do not believe that they have," replied the magister. "Regardless, as your humble servant, I would offer you and the illustrious Lady Lannister here the hospitality of my home, if it please you to accept it."

Sansa was close enough to feel Jon tense up without having to remove her eyes from the large, garishly-dressed stranger before them. That this man, in far-flung Essos, would know of Jon was not as unlikely an occurrence as it had be before Jon was reborn in the fires of the red priestess Melisandre. The tale was known far and wide. That Mopatis should know _**Sansa**_ by sight was troubling, to say the least. She could keep silent no longer. "I do not answer to that name, magister. If you must address me at all, address me as Lady Stark."

"My apologies, Lady _Stark_. I will not make that mistake again."

"What reason do you have to show us this good will?" Jon cut in, distrust saturating his voice. "Besides these baseless rumors of my lineage, that is?"

"My motives are as I have stated. If they do not satisfy your natural and understandable instinct to distrust, there is little I can say to change that. However, if it please your Stark honor, I give you my solemn oath that no harm shall assail either of you here if it is within my power to prevent it."

Jon's eyes turned to Sansa's with obvious inquiry. She knew that look well by now. Unlike must other men she had ever known, Jon was forever seeking her opinion before making a decision which might effect her. Despite the precariousness of their current situation, it made warmth unfurl in her chest so that she could hardly breathe from the intensity of it. Instead of speaking, she gave him a slight nod of assent. Jon acknowledged her opinion with a solemn nod of his own, and turned to face the magister once more.

"We will accept your offer of hospitality, magister. But that is all. I am no dragon, and I will have nothing to do with your ambitions for the Targaryen line."

Sansa did not like the oily gleam in the magister's eyes, but his face seemed honest enough when he proclaimed: "I accept your terms, Jon Snow. Welcome to Pentos."

:::::::::::::::

Illyrio had never met a dragon quite like Jon Snow. If truth be told, the man was something of an enigma to Illyrio. He was Stark through and through. That much was obvious. Rhaegar's bastard he might be, but his every action marked him as a son of Lord Eddard Stark. Illyrio had observed Lord Stark whilst the man was still the Hand of Robert Baratheon. Stark had reeked of honorable intentions, and it had been that same honor which had killed the wolf in the end. Jon Snow seemed for all the world to be a man bound and determined to meet the same fate. The bloody end to his tenure as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch was enough evidence of that. Yet, Snow had fled the continent rather than satisfy the requirements of his Stark honor by remaining to fight the coming Winter in defense of the brothers who had forsaken him and the realm which had cast him aside like so much waste. Nay, a different kind of honor had compelled him to throw his life and his sword at the feet of the last known shard of the family he had never truly belonged to. Snow doted on the girl who was, in almost equal measure, both his cousin and his sister. Her every need was met by Snow almost before it was even expressed.

When the girl, a pale winter blossom of great beauty and poise, had made an off-hand remark about what she felt was the stifling heat of the Free Cities, Snow had humbly instructed Illyrio's cook on the preparation of a special Lysene lemon ice confection which Sansa had become fond of in their travels, and asked that it be made available at any time the girl should wish it.

The westerlings had been sheltering in Illyrio's manse for nigh on a week, and Snow had never made any such request for himself. Illyrio suspected that even the small entreaty on the girl's behalf had been a severe blow to Snow's pride. Having to rely upon Illyrio's kindness at all seemed to make the young man even more taciturn and gruff than he had been upon their first encounter. As for the Stark girl... Well, Starks had never been known for being loquacious. His guests joined him for meals and at any time politeness required, but mostly kept to themselves.

It was in the late morning hours of the sixth day of their stay that Illyrio sought out his guests. He found them strolling side-by-side in his garden; Snow's great, silent beast trailing after them. The Stark girl was a vision in a modest sundress of pale green sandsilk with cream and gold embroidery. She had a small cup of lemon ice clasped in her slender hand, and she was busy spooning a bit of it into her mouth with a light of simple joy in her eyes. _She certainly has a rapt audience_, Illyrio mused, noting the single-minded intensity with which Snow watched the girl when she closed her eyes in rapture. When next her striking blue eyes showed themselves, they settled upon Illyrio himself. Embarrassment colored her pale cheeks prettily, but she did not shrink under his gaze. In fact, she seemed to turn to steel right before his eyes; hiding her unguarded moment behind stolid reserve.

"Winterlings," Illyrio could not help but jest when he reached them. "Every one of you that come here starts melting at the slightest provocation."

"Have you seen many Northerners here?" Snow inquired, features now dour and closed off; never shifting into anything more welcoming than aloof resignation.

"Some," shrugged Illyrio. "But, few that last in Essos as long as the pair of you have."

Snow squinted off into the distance where the horizon itself quivered in the afternoon heat. His wolf rose its head to sniff the air in the same direction. "Our time here may be at an end," Snow said, solemn as ever.

"There were more of them at the gates last night," the girl elaborated, clearly on the same page as Snow. Beyond the hard-bought tranquility of Illyrio's walls, a storm was brewing. The sickness which had been plaguing several southron ships was now running rampant in Pentos. Citizens were falling ill by the dozens, and their fear had increased tenfold. Not only were outsiders being turned away, some were being hunted down in the streets like vermin. The more easily-frightened yokels who had glimpsed Snow's monstrous wolf, believed him to be one of their great white beasts of legend, a minion of the old god of death that left pestilence in his wake. Day by day, more of them gathered at Illyrio's gates, calling for the wolf's head, and sometimes for Snow's as well. "They won't stop until they have him," Lady Stark went on, delicate features hardening as if she was preparing to put down every soul who dared to threaten either of her protectors.

"I would assure you of your continued safety here, but a very reliable associate of mine seems to believe otherwise."

Snow narrowed his eyes, and made a subtle shift so that he stood a little between Illyrio and the Stark girl. "What kind of associate?"

"A red priestess of the Temple," said Illyrio, watching a new shadow of apprehension fall over Snow's face. "She has requested an audience with you."

"Then, she has wasted her breath," Snow barked without delay.

"The matter is entirely up to you, of course. But, I feel it is my duty to inform you that she seems to have some dire predictions with regards to your future."

Snow's expression did not change. "I have no use for fragments of a future glimpsed in your red priestess' nightfires. They have not served me well in the past and I doubt they shall do so now. If you will excuse me." With that, Snow stalked away, his wolf silently following in his wake.

Lady Stark took one graceful stride in Snow's direction, but hesitated before going on. She turned back to Illyrio with an entreaty in her eyes. "What did the priestess predict? What did she say would happen to Ghost?...to Jon?"

"The servants of Rh'llor do not often discuss the details of their predictions with any to whom they do not pertain," Illyrio informed her. "But, from what I gathered, it involved some great loss on which she would not elaborate. Lady Stark, I hope I have not overly offended you or Lord Snow by bringing this to your attention."

"No, it was right that you should do so," she said. Her face was hardening with resolve once more. "In fact, I should like to meet this red priestess of yours myself."

"As you wish." Illyrio bowed, and watched the girl glide away in pursuit of her companions. _The wolf and the dragon are turning out to be quite the pair_, he mused as he headed for his study. He had letters to write. Several, in fact.

:::::::::::::::

Sweat was rolling from Jon's brow into his face, showing itself in large stains on his tunic and making the worn leather grip of his practice sword more and more difficult to keep hold of. The relentless Pentoshi sun was veritably baking him. _So much for the famed Targaryen immunity to fire_, he thought with little humor.

"Again," Jon barked, raising his blunted blade. If Sansa was suffering the effects of the heat, Jon would not know it from the focus and determination she displayed as she took up a defensive stance; her own blunted blade held so comfortably it seemed a natural extension of her arm. She fought like she danced; with a fluid precision which flowed from one action to the next in such a way that both formed a single faultless motion. His fast, brutal hits seemed barbarous by comparison, yet his proved the superior style nine times out of ten.

"This time, focus more on my movements than on your own," he instructed. "You've learned how to wield your sword instinctively. Now you must work on anticipating the actions of your opponent."

Sansa nodded, and Jon swung low then high in rapid succession. She was there to met him each time, their swords colliding with satisfying clangs. Jon continued swinging and Sansa continued blocking; their dance taking them around and around Magister Illyrio's well-appointed courtyard.

Sansa was no master of the sword by any definition, but through hard work and endless practice she had learned to defend herself well enough to get away from any danger which might assail her. She blocked swing after swing, using the oft-practiced motions with which she was most familiar. Jon moved as if to attack her right side and hit at her left at the last second. She parried the blow and unexpectedly took the offensive, cutting at Jon's left flank with a smooth, wide-arching stroke. Jon brought his blade up to intercept hers, and he felt rather than saw it soundly strike her sword arm. Sansa dropped her blade as her arm reflexively went limb, and her hand closed around the inflicted forearm.

"Forgive me, the fault was mine," Jon hastened to say. "Here, let me see it." He went to her and dipped his head to inspect the injury, gently moving her hand aside. The bruise which was welling up was a thin, angry ribbon of scarlet set against the near translucent skin of her inner arm. "That looks painful," he murmured as he rose his head. "You may need to put some ic-" His words came to a halt the second he registered Sansa's proximity. She had drawn inexplicably closer to him; so close that he could feel a puff of moist heat on his cheek every time she exhaled. For an uncomfortable few seconds they stood there still as statues with his hands still wrapped around her arm and their eyes locked together; sharing breath and heat and stillness. Then, Jon was backing away so swiftly that he had moved several paces away before he drew his next breath to say: "Perhaps we should stop for the-"

"No," Sansa interrupted, voice resolute if a little breathless. "I'll be fine." She picked up her blade and gracefully fell into her preferred fighting stance. "Again."

Jon hesitated. Something in him, be it honor, conscience, or damned stupidity, was urging him to address the unease which had suddenly pervaded the air around them. "Sansa-"

"**Again**," she insisted firmly, eyes refusing to meet his own. The light sweat which had graced her brow all morning had intensified, and her grip on her sword seemed looser than before. She rose a hand to swipe the excessive moisture from her forehead, and Jon noticed that the flush in her cheeks had retreated alarmingly, leaving behind a sickly pallor.

Jon set his sword aside. "I think we should go inside," he suggested. "Get out of the sun for a while."

"No," said Sansa, her voice wavering slightly. "No, the breeze has chilled me. The sun's warmth is welcome."

"Sansa," Jon said very carefully. "There has been no breeze all day."

Her free hand touched her forehead once again and came away drenched. Fearful realization dawned in her eyes even as Jon himself finally understood. "Jon," she whispered, almost implored, before slumping to the ground in a heap of pale blue sandsilk and impossibly red hair.

:::::::::::::::

Sansa woke up freezing. She pulled her blankets up over her shoulders, trying to chase away the terrible chill in the air, and was dismayed to find that even with the blankets pulled up to her chin the cold kept on creeping in, making her shiver like a leaf. And as if that were not enough, her pillow was soaked through like she had been crying all night. When she tried to remember what might have upset her, her thoughts became like weak threads blowing farther and farther away the more she reached out for them. One thought held on even as the others drifted away from her. **Jon**.

She had not realized that she had spoken aloud until an answer came from beyond her line of sight. "I'm here."

Jon drew a chair up to the edge of her bed so that she could see him. His beard was more scraggly than normal and he had dark circles under his eyes, but he was still her Jon and the sight of him was enough to set her more at ease. If Jon was there, nothing bad could happen to her. If Jon was there, everything was going to be all right.

Ghost, apparently having followed Jon into the room, leapt up onto the bed and flopped his heavy weight down on her legs, warming them more than the layers of blankets around her could ever hope to. "What happened?"

Jon's solemn stare fell to his hands; clasped together in front of him as if in prayer.

"Please, Jon," pressed Sansa. "What is it?" When Jon still would not meet her eyes, she knew. The memories which had been eluding her came flooding back in. Practicing at swords with Jon in a courtyard filled with mid-afternoon light. The sharp pain in her arm and the angry bruise which had welled up. Jon's warm hands enveloping her forearm in a heat which had seared through the cloth of her sleeve and made its imprint on the skin beneath. The way his nearness had had her body thrumming in a way that even their hours of swordplay had not. The cold sweat which had broken out upon her brow. And the chill. The horrible chill. "I have it, don't I? The sickness?"

Jon cleared his throat. "You've been in and out of consciousness for days. Each time you wake, the chill is worse. They say...They say that no one with the sickness has ever survived it. I don't know what to do," he confessed. His quiet tones sounded choked and strained with emotions she knew well: shame and self-loathing. "I swore my life and my sword to you. To your protection. But... I do not know how to protect you from this. I do not know what to do."

Tears slid from Sansa's stinging eyes; mingling with the relentless, chilling sweat. She could not believe she had enough moisture left in her body to produce them. Her tongue felt like sanding paper, and her throat was so dry and constricted that her words had been scraping themselves out of her mouth in raspy, barely-intelligible croaks. Yet, instead of requesting water, she found herself murmuring: "Fire."

"Of course," said Jon, jumping up and rushing over to stoke the already flaring flames in the brazier; clearly desperate for any task which might alleviate, if only a little, some of her suffering. She must have sounded worse than she thought, because, upon his return to her side, Jon lifted the metal decanter on the beside table and poured her a cup of steaming ginger tea. When he brought it to her lips, she could smell the sharp tang of lemon in the pale, golden spice brew. Even parched as she was, she could only manage a few small sips of the warming beverage before she was pushing the offered cup away again.

Jon reluctantly put the cup aside, and Sansa reached out blindly to catch his hand in a loose grip. Her thoughts were winding away again in fragile tendrils of delicate twine, and she wanted to make her request before she lost them altogether. "Illyrio," she said. Jon leaned forward, intent on hearing her ever-quieting words. "Tell him that I wish to see her."

Jon's brow furrowed and he gave a slight negative shake of his head. "To see whom? I-" Realization dawned on his face, and just as quickly anger. "The red priestess? Sansa, no. I can't. I won't! No good can come of it!"

"Please, Jon. I must know," whispered Sansa. "I have to know..." She meant to say more, but her voice faltered. The last things she saw before even her vision failed her were Jon's troubled, Stark grey eyes, so like her father's in the moments before Ice fell.

:::::::::::::::

Jon leaned out over the west-facing balcony of the magister's manse. Even in the stifling heat of midday, the usual gathering of Pentoshi had formed to protest at the main gates. The street in front of the manse had been choked with the great teeming mass of them. Yet, she had calmed them. Illyrio's red priestess. When her small caravan had arrived, coming north from the Red Temple itself, a hush had fallen over the previously rowdy mob and they had parted to make way for her. Even now, the protesters, who had been surging like a relentless wave against the magister's high stone walls for nigh on a fortnight, were silent and watchful; likely waiting for their vaunted fire priestess to burn away the pestilence plaguing them by cleansing the city of its unwanted guests.

Jon watched as Illyrio led her small precession through the courtyard. The priestess herself was hidden from his sight amid her tall, stately escort of temple guards. There were eight guards in total. Two had remained to guard the gates, though the crowd no longer seemed as anxious to enter as before. The other six guards formed an apparently impenetrable barricade between their mistress and the world around her. Despite their impressive stature and fierce-looking weapons, Jon doubted that they would serve much of a purpose once their charge reached her destination.

Most of the magister's household staff, even those who had not been afraid to welcome and serve Jon and Sansa, had fled at the first sign of Sansa's illness. The ones who stayed, the ones too desperate to walk out on Illyrio's handsome wages, kept their distance, effectively quarantining the entire guest wing and leaving only Jon and Illyrio's ancient, withered nursemaid, Taavia, to tend to Sansa. Taavia stayed, because she had nowhere else to go. She was a former slave from Volantis with no other way to maintain her freedom. Jon stayed, because he had to. Because, he would not, could not, leave Sansa to her fate as easily as the others had. He had promised to protect her life with his own, and he had failed. His life had been forfeit the very moment the chill overcame her. Though Taavia only came in twice a day to see to Sansa, the old woman had already begun to show signs of the illness. Jon himself had not succumbed as he had thought must be inevitable. He remained as hale as ever despite the fact that he had barely left Sansa's side, convinced that her every quiet, shuddered breath would be her last. Though his continued good health was a circumstance he could not account for, it was also one for which he could not help but be thankful. He did not know how he would have managed to help tend to Sansa if he too had been fighting the deadly chill.

Sansa's moments of cognizance were becoming more brief and more scarce. The latest had only lasted a few seconds. He had heard his name spoken so softly he thought he might have imagined it. Then, he saw one small glimpse of her impossibly blue eyes before she had faded away again. That had been three days past. On the second day, he had succumb to Sansa's wishes and requested an audience with the red priestess. Despite his misgivings, in the end he simply did not have it in him to refuse Sansa anything, especially not the last request she was likely to make of him.

Hearing noises from the antechamber, Jon steeled himself and reentered Sansa's bed chamber. Magister Illyrio stood in the doorway as always, never truly crossing the threshold. "Lord Snow," he nodded. Jon tried to control the distain he felt whenever the man used that title. Whatever else Illyrio Mopatis was, he had stayed true to his word; protecting Jon and Sansa even when it seemed to whole of the city was calling for their heads. "May I present Lady Kaerys, red priestess of the Temple of Rh'llor." Here he moved aside and gestured for the lady in question to come forth.

Jon had been prepared for many things, but he could not contain his surprise when a tiny young woman who could not have been older than Jon himself stepped out from behind Illyrio's massive girth. Small as she was, her demeanor gave no doubt that she was certainly older than she appeared. She held herself with authority, gliding into the room with the grace of a woman thrice her apparent age. Only her ornate red gown marked her out as a priestess of Rh'llor. Everything else about her, from her skin (as sun-bronzed as a Braavosi) to her hair (as long, black and oiled as a Dothraki horse lord's) to her eyes (the strange, pale violet seen in many Lysenes) suggested far more interesting origins.

"My lady," greeted Jon.

"Please," said the priestess, sharp accent pointing to a Tyroshi heritage. "I am no lady, my lord. Call me Kaerys only."

"I am no lord, Kaerys," Jon replied in kind. "Just a northern bastard far from home."

"I have been fated to meet you for a very long time, Jon Snow," she said.

"The last time someone told me that, I ended up dead," Jon commented.

"Yet, here you stand," retorted Kaerys, uncowed. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon spotted the magister retreating back to the safety of the hallway and leaving behind a curious, little trunk of gold and bronze. None of Kaerys' guards had entered the room, yet she stood in the sick room so utterly without fear that Jon found himself unaccountably wary of her. "Is it true that Lady Melisandre gave her life for your rebirth?"

"She succumbed shortly after, yes," Jon confirmed. In his mind's eye he saw Melisandre's dark red hair spilling over the coarse wooden floorboards of Hardin's Tower like a puddle of overturned wine. The strains grow lighter and brighter until they were suddenly like beams of fiery light splayed upon the paving stones of a courtyard and Sansa's name became lodged in his throat, choked off by a fear the like of which he had never felt before that moment.

Presently, his eyes strayed to the sickbed. Even buried beneath countless layers of bedding and with Ghost's considerable warmth draped across her feet and legs, Sansa was shivering so badly that the great mound of cloth was periodically shaken by violent tremors. Jon had not been able to coax his direwolf away from Sansa's side even for a moment. As Kaerys turned to gaze upon Sansa herself, Ghost's red eyes silently followed the priestess' every movement with a feral intensity.

"So this is the beast they speak of," murmured Kaerys as if to herself. "The white demon of legend."

"He is only a direwolf," Jon said. "Nothing more."

Kaerys' eerie, violet eyes found Jon again. "He is much more than that, Jon Snow. As are you." Then, she was studying Sansa's pale, quivering form once more. "And so is she."

Jon moved to stand between Kaerys and the sickbed. "What business do you have with her?"

The priestess was unmoved. "I believe it is she who had business with me."

"In that case, I fear you have made a wasted journey," said Jon. "She has not opened her eyes in two days, and she did not tell me why she wished an audience with you."

"That does not matter," Kaerys said. "She will tell me herself, if you will allow it."

"But-"

"I can bring her forth from this darkness, Jon Snow. Whole and sound. But not without consequence."

Jon listened to the faint, shallow breathing just behind him. He let the sound temper the dangerous blaze which had been ignited in the center of his chest by this new spark of hope. "What consequence would there be?"

"Magister Illyrio tells me that you have not left her side since she fell ill. Do you know why you have not succumb to the sickness yourself, Jon Snow?"

Jon's thoughts answered her instantly. _I am already dead_. But, he averted his eyes rather than betray his long-held suspicions to this strange woman. "No, I do not."

Kaerys studied his face carefully before she spoke again. He did not trust the knowing glint which appeared in her eyes after her appraisal was complete. "I wish to tell you a story, Jon Snow, about a warrior and a dragon." When Jon opened his mouth to protest, the priestess held up a silencing hand. "You will want to hear this tale, I assure you. There once lived a man whose dearest wish was to be the greatest warrior that ever was. He wanted people far and wide to tremble at the mere mention of his name. So he fought every able-bodied man who would dare to challenge him, and he bested every opponent. When there were no more warriors who would face him, he set out to slay one of every fearsome beast of which he knew. He slew a great sea serpent, a bull, a lion, and a bear. Yet still, he was not satisfied. He would not be satisfied until he had slain the most feared beast in the known world."

"A dragon," guessed Jon.

"Just so," Kaerys nodded. "He journeyed to the top of the highest mountain where the oldest and most feared dragon was said to reside. And when they fought, the battle was fierce and unforgiving. The warrior only came out the victor by sheer luck, and he knew it. The dragon knew it as well. He told the man that even though he was defeated, he was still the greater warrior. His kind was bigger, swifter, more agile, and more fearsome than any man could ever be. Enraged, the warrior lunged his sword into the dragon's breast and cut out its heart for a trophy. When he returned home, he told the old and wise maegi who served the people of his village what the dragon had said to him. The maegi told him that if he wished to have the strengths of a dragon, she could give them to him. The warrior agreed immediately, but the maegi advised caution. For no strength could exist without weakness, and he would have to accept both or nothing at all. The warrior had no use for caution, and he demanded that the maegi do his will. So the maegi took the dragon's heart and burned it until it was nothing but ash and sot. Then, she added to it seven ancient herbs, seven drops of the warrior's own blood, and water from the great salt sea. She bade the warrior to drink it down as she preformed the rites. The warrior did as she instructed, and he fell into a deep sleep which lasted seven days and seven nights. When he awoke, he was stronger, swifter, and more agile than any man could be. He was finally the great warrior he had always wished to be. Bards worldwide sang songs of his feats of glory and valor."

"You said that all of his strengths came with weaknesses," Jon reminded Kaerys. "What were they?"

Kaerys' mouth curved into a mysterious smile as though inexplicably pleased by something he had said. "The warrior now had dragonfire in his blood. It made him bold and fearless, but it also made him proud and boastful and quick to anger. He was more reckless than ever. He slew many more beasts and soon learned that dragons, the mightiest of all, now bowed to his command. When his land when to war, he rode a great, black dragon into battle and together they laid whole battalions to waste with impunity. This angered the foreign king so much that he ordered armored men to go to the dragon warrior's childhood village, slaughter everyone there, and burn it to the ground. By the time the dragon warrior got word and rushed home to protect his people, he found the village already ablaze. The sight drove the warrior to madness, and he dove headfirst into the flames rather than live with this disgrace."

"But he survived," Jon realized even as he spoke, his mind reeling back to the flames which had engulfed but not consumed him on the night of his rebirth.

"Just so," said Kaerys. "He emerged from the flames unscathed. His men went to their knees in reverence even as the still crazed dragon warrior fell to the ground in despair."

"What became of him," Jon asked, though he thought he already knew. Maybe he had known from the beginning.

Kaerys did not answer right away. Instead, she went to the gold and bronze trunk, and knelt to open it. She pulled five objects from it. One was a corked bottle made of deep black dragonglass. The second was a lidded earthen pot made of dark red clay. The third was a slim, silver dagger. The fourth was a small, pale brown sack with a strong odor of spice. The fifth and last thing was an empty bowl made of bone china. She set each object down on Sansa's bedside table with care and solemnity. When she was done, she turned back to Jon. "The dragon warrior went on to slay the foreign king with his bare hands. He was given his king's eldest daughter for a wife and he was promised the throne. His descendents sat that throne, and every one of them had dragonfire in their blood."

"Targaryens," said Jon.

Kaerys nodded. "Just so. You are one of those descendants, Jon Snow. As am I."

Jon found that he was not surprised. "Your eyes."

"From my mother," said Kaerys. "My father was Tyroshi. I have no claims to the Targaryen throne. I am just a natural-born descendant of a bastard line long forgotten."

Jon's mouth quirked. "Just another bastard far from home?"

Kaerys gave him a rare open smile. "We are not as different as you first thought, Jon Snow. It is the fire in our blood which protects us from this chill."

Jon's eyes strayed to Sansa once more, and then to the canisters on the table. "You want to make her like us," he said. "Like the dragon warrior."

"It is your choice."

"It should be hers."

"She asked for me to come."

"She did not ask for this," snapped Jon.

"Neither did we," Kaerys rejoined, and then quietly added: "It is not her fate to die in this room, Jon Snow."

"What do you know of her fate?"

Kaerys' violet eyes grew sad. "More than I care to."

Jon went to Sansa and knelt to place a kiss on her eerily pallid forehead. She shivered once then lay still again. Jon shut his eyes tightly. "Do it," he permitted.

"You must leave the room," instructed Kaerys. "And him as well." She motioned to Ghost.

Jon hesitated.

"I will not let her die, Jon Snow," assured Kaerys. "I give you my word."

At last, Jon nodded. "Ghost, to me," he said firmly. Inexplicably, the direwolf bounded down off the bed without protest, and followed Jon out. The last sight Jon saw before closing the door behind them was Sansa's silouhette, made dark and black by the midday light streaming in from the open window, surrounded by hair as bright as fire and as red as blood.


End file.
